Crash and burn Dr Watson
by My-Comatose-Shadow-Friend13
Summary: Q: What if the explosive jacket in The Great Game exploded by the pool? A: A crippled Sherlock and John stuck in a hospital in a critical state. WARNING! FEELS GALORE!
1. Brother mine

**This is a one-off AU story to what could have happened if the explosive jacket in The Great Game had exploded.**

**UPDATE: I want to thank everyone who has left a review I really appreciate it :) I also wish to thank the invisible viewers who have read this and those of you reading this now. :) :) :)**

* * *

_The pool. John stepping from a cubicle in a large winter coat. Jim from IT. Molly's gay boyfriend. Snipers. Moriarty. A gunshot. Explosion. Ripple of pain. Water. Blackness. _

Groggily, I came to to the sound of loud intermittent bleeps. It was easily recognise able as a heartbeat despite the presence of a particularly atrocious migraine trapped within the confines of my skull. I moved to clutch my pounding head but realised that I had plastic tubing attached to my inner left forearm. Lifting my head up I saw numerous suction pads on my chest and abdomen. I sank back into the bed in deep contemplation.

_I was most obviously hospitalised. However the reason as to how I got here and why it was necessary escaped me. Think Sherlock. What do you remember?_

I quickly reconstructed my last memories.

I remember pulling out my gun at the seemingly unarmed Moriarty. John Watson was standing stock-still in the middle of us both; fearful that any movement of his would result in a sniper round being planted in his forehead. I recalled the glance we shared. That one look that passed between us decided our fate. I aimed at the explosive jacket by Moriarty's leather shoes and squeezed the trigger.

_I had been invalided from the poolside._

My thoughts turned to John Watson. Had he fared as well as me from the blast? Although he had been closer to the explosion I had hoped that he'd have the sense to jump into the water. An image of him laying in pieces on some doctor's slab in the morgue was repulsive to me. I repressed it.

However, Moriarty I understood couldn't possibly have survived an impact from that proximity. At least in that respect I felt soothed. I'd cracked his case and somehow justice had been served in the process.

Twisting my head around I took in the room. A hideously pungent array of flowers stood arrogantly at the foot of my bed. The indentations on the petals created the impression that numerous small faces were scowling at me, as if unpleased that I survived. The effect was sickening so I kicked out and the flowers fell. A satisfying smash reverberated around the otherwise plainly decorated room.

My eyes alighted on the large monitor by my bedside which was the source of the bleeping heartbeat.

_Why is my heartbeat under observation?_ I wondered, There's_ no reason to suspect that I should lapse into a coma or slip into death without first knowing the medical status of John. _

I snorted with derision. On the exterior these nurses and doctors were oh-so-careful-and-caring but it was all a ruse alike the vets to whom I had reluctantly handed Redbeard over to so many years ago. They only wished to detain me without the slightest scrap of news about my friend. I felt an overwhelming desire to see him. Right now. Straining against the surprisingly heavy hospital sheets I managed to prop myself up. A dizziness began to stir in my head and the incessant bleeping had quickened considerably.

_Damn it! I need to see John now! I can't do it if I'm stuck on this bed though, can I? Sherlock get up! _

I moved to swing my legs over to the side of the bed, but they were unresponsive.

_Oh great! Now what Sherlock? Are you going to clamber out of here on your hands and knees? _

I tried once again. Nothing happened.

An overpowering sense of urgency enveloped me as I shuffled to the edge of the bed. Painful though it was I couldn't stand the thought of another drug-induced sleep without knowing whether he'd actually survived. Rocking from side to side, my body flipped off the bed. I saw the ground rise up to cushion my fall but it really did the exact, unwanted, polar opposite. My shoulder and jaw smashed into the tiled floor,

" John!" I croaked, " John, help!"

My vision was clouding over from the force of the impact and I saw stars. Alerted by the thump a barrage of white coated professionals stormed in and coordinated an attempt to lift me back into the bed. I struggled but they only restrained me. When I cried out they produced a sizeable syringe and needle. The glinting point was inches from my bare skin when Mycroft strolled in.

The professionals all turned to look. Although, he had not uttered a single word he had everyone spellbound including me. He was the only stationary thing within my swirling vision that I instinctively gravitated towards. The arm that was poised above me with the fistful of syringes was merely being kept at bay by my brothers authoritative presence. I sighed in relief.

" I suggest that all of you vacate this room immediately."

" What?" Chorused the doctors who were extremely loathe to leave at the word of one man.

" You all heard me. I require you to leave my brother alone," the assembled group wore amused expressions which Mycroft countered swiftly, " ...and rest assured if you don't you'll invoke the anger of the entire British Government."

Whether it was his tone of voice or his direct and sincere reference to a higher power they quickly skedaddled. Mycroft turned to me,

" I realise that you have a deep mistrust for people wearing white lab coats since Redbeard was put down. So I decided it would be best to shorten the required time in their presence."

I began to thank him for the deliverance but he cut my apology mercifully short,

" I trust you're sufficiently recovered enough to hear the news?" I eyed my brothers face which was tight, taunt and terrifyingly serious.

" What news Mycroft? Of John Watson I should hope."

" There is no scenic route to telling you the truth so I shall share with you the quite tactless, but informative response..."

" Which would be..?"

Mycroft sighed resignedly, " which would be that the doctors don't believe Mr Watson will pull through. He's sustained multiple flesh and bone injuries and as you are temporarily crippled you can be in no doubt of how bad Mr Watson's condition is at present."

" He was much closer to the bomb than I..." I whispered as the repressed image of his corpse darted to the forefront of my mind palace.

" There is no simple or easy way to say this but I trust that you shall maintain your current levels of reason, logic and observation whether Mr Watson lives or dies."

I stared defiantly through the thick, viscous blanket of unshed tears towards my matter-of-fact brother. His face was void of all detectable emotion.

" He will live through it though, won't he?" I choked out through my tightened throat.

" Balance of probability little brother. They are decidedly not in his favour." Mycroft looked wearily over at me but I could detect a small pinch of empathy in his eyes.

Glancing earnestly towards the door I implored him to allow me to see him. And much to my surprise he not only gave his permission but offered to help me into a wheelchair. I accepted his assistance.

_I can't believe this. After all this time Mycroft is still looking out for me. He tried his hardest to console me when Redbeard was gone and is trying again now as he thinks John is gone. _

_But I disagree. _

_John Watson has me. I shall hide him and protect him from the East Wind that seeks to devour us all. _

_John Watson will live._


	2. The sign

As I trundled through the winding A&E department I felt a rush of gratitude towards my big brother. He really had over-stepped his mark and cartwheeled out of his comfort zone to be with me today. I knew that he wasn't overly fond of hospitals, or people in general. He was doing it for me and despite the fact that his highly important missile plans had also been eradicated in the blast he was surprisingly at ease about it.

We stopped only once at a receptionists desk to obtain John's whereabouts. The surliness of the woman behind it was quickly extinguished by Mycroft's tactless deduction that her girl friend was seeing someone else. There was no time for politeness with John's medical status hanging in the balance. So we exited to the sound of her pitiful wails.

At long last we arrived outside the ward. We didn't stop nor falter at the door as my soul yearned to see John. Mycroft had said he hadn't been as lucky; I'd fallen in the pool so I guessed he mustn't have.

_Breathe Sherlock. Whatever state John is in, we'll react to calmly, rationally and-_

The double doors slammed open.

It was no exaggeration to say that my world began to crumble around me when I laid eyes on his sorry state. The man who always seemed full of life and vibrancy lay helplessly ensnared in a complex web of wires and tubes. The soldier who was considerably small in life looked even more painfully smaller and weaker within the coils of medical technology.

My mind palace started to judder and shake at it's very roots. The closer I got to John, the more my heart cried out in pain and longing. I was bombarded by every siren or warning call I knew, even the piercing screech of a distressed cat. The resulting chaotic jumble of sound forced me to clutch my head in agony. Mycroft wheeled me closer. I felt like a dagger had been forcibly jabbed into my chest and had impaled my heart. John's soulful eyes were wide and unseeing like many of the corpses, I had been oblivious to their suffering.

_Control! Control! Control!_

I struggled to withhold my tears and the terrifying onslaught of emotions that sought to drown me.

_John Watson isn't dead yet! He still has a chance to recover! Right?_

I clutched at the bed sheets and buried my face in them. I daren't touch him for fear of interfering with his treatment but I wanted to. I wanted to feel his steady heartbeat and the firmness of his hand in mine. I wanted him to tell me it was going to be alright like he reassuringly said to our more distressed clients back in 221B.

I felt Mycroft's arm slip around my trembling shoulders. He said nothing. No words were exchanged as his presence was consolation enough. I gingerly poked my arm through the tangle of wires and clasped John's cold hand. I willed the heat from my palm to transfer to his. I wished with every fibre of my being that my John would come back to me.

I could be the consulting detective in wheelchair but I could not, could not even entertain the thought of being Sherlock Holmes without John.

I wished with every fibre of my being, on every shooting star I'd ever witnessed and on every penny I'd ever flicked into a wishing well that John would survive.

_Please John. You brave man, don't you dare give up on me now. _

Glancing around tearily I saw a clipboard by the foot of his bed; the doctor's notes, the diagnosis, prognosis and medication list. I gently rolled myself over. Whilst reading I attempted to disentangle the giant knot in my heart. I felt wholly to blame for his predicament and the guilt was like a cobra, ever tightening it's fatal grip around me.

_Hang on!_

I tentatively lifted my head. My eyes swept over John's pale, diminished body that lay at peculiar angles, but there was something else...

_I was missing something..._

_Wait- _

_What is that above the bed?_

___I hope it isn't... _

I gasped in horror.

There was a piece of paper plastered to the bed head and it had only three fateful letters printed onto it. DNR. It would spell death for my dear John Watson if it remained.

_How dare they condemn John to death like this? _

I gritted my teeth angrily at whoever was responsible for this act of criminality. In my eyes this was on a par with the highest treason.

_This is unacceptable! Sherlock, do something!_

Grabbing hold of the two wheels either side of me I violently thrust my arms forward, rolling the wheelchair over to the bed head. I swung my upper body dangerously far forward so that I could snatch the monstrosity down. But I mistimed it and missed, the wheelchair toppled over and I lay sprawled underneath it. Mycroft hurried to my side and levered the metal frame off my back.

" Sherlock what in the world were you thinking? You could have worsened your legs and ended up permanently crippled!"

" The sign!" I wheezed.

Mycroft's eyes followed the path of my wavering index finger. His face darkened. With long, purposeful strides he wrenched the Do Not Resuscitate sign fiercely from the bed. He strode outside.

I was suddenly aware of my awkwardly sprawled position on the floor. It was painful. But all I could do was wait for Mycroft's return. I didn't have to wait long or strain my ears to hear the angry words my brother shouted at the main doctor of the ward.

" Did it even occur to you to consult Mr Watson's family and friends before placing a sign like that? Did we give you our consent to let him die?" The man has endured war and horrific injury so I suggest that you do everything you can to get him back on his feet. He doesn't deserve to be cut adrift by insolent fools like you."

" We tried to contact everyone in his immediate family but-"

" But what? No-one answered? Then, you just decided on a whim that you'd condemn him to death? I am not a man of many morals but I will say that you were definitely disregarding your medical ethics by doing this! You should be ashamed."

The finality in Mycroft's tone was clear, he did not invite any response from the doctor. I heard one set of hasty footsteps hurrying back down the corridor and I knew for a fact it wasn't Mycroft's. He re-entered the room and swiftly came over, knelt by my side then manoeuvred me back into the wheelchair.

" Apologies." He said, "I should have helped you up sooner."

" No no," I replied amusedly, " it was quite an experience to hear you get so worked up over something for once."

We exchanged a rare smile then he swiftly turned tail and made to leave the room. Just before he was out of ear shot I said,

" Thank you brother mine. Shall we be meeting again?"

" Ah! I hope not to make a habit of it, but seeing as you've caught me at a sentimental time I'll tell you. We shall meet either with me as your best man or at his funeral. I hope for your sake it is not the latter. Take care Sherlock."

" Take care."


	3. The East Wind is coming

I felt tears prickle in my eyes. For a moment, I believed I was the recipient of one of my own morbid experiments. One specific case came to mind; a time when it was necessary for me to know the volume of discharge from an eye if repeatedly stabbed with a needle.

I turned around, ready to share my nostalgia with John.

But I quickly remembered his condition and bowed my head in shame. My excited grin faded from my lips.

The strain on my hardened heart was building rapidly and I soon found I couldn't watch him a moment longer.

_I can't stay here..._ I thought,

_My presence won't change anything. It won't help him get better any quicker by remaining here. What was the saying Mother always said? A watched pot never boils?_

Not wasting a moment more I trundled over to the ward doors. However before leaving, I forcibly made myself look back at him. He seemed so small, almost boyish without the careworn wrinkles crisscrossing his face.

_Wait! I hope that saying doesn't translate to; a watched man who is dying never dies. That means I must stay by his side!_

I oscillated back and forth in the wheelchair, unsure of what to do. Would the pain of supporting him be greater than the guilt of deserting him? Or vice versa?

" Ah!"

I exclaimed angrily. Slapping my face hard enough to bring a red mark didn't seem to help at all either. But luckily something else did,

" Sherlock?" Called a weak voice from the hospital bed.

I spun around with a burst of adrenaline surging through my veins. A joyous whoop escaped my lips as I made my erratic path to John's bedside.

" John! It's me! I'm here for you, I'm right here." I clasped his hand in mine and brought it to my chest so that I may show him how happy I was.

" Do the thing." He croaked imploringly. Breathlessly I asked,

" What thing John? What is it you want?" I leant in closer to him and looked earnestly into his big, round, sad eyes. John inhaled deeply before answering.

" Call me an idiot Sherlock."

_What?!_

"Insult me. Reaffirm your intellectual prowess."

My ecstatic ear-to-ear smile froze solidly on my lips. I knew what I'd heard but I reverently wished that I was wrong.

" John? What are you saying? I couldn't possibly-"

" Sherlock. I can't bare to see you torn up like this. It's killing me inside. I know I've not got much time left and I'm a doctor so I know when internal bleeding becomes fatal. Please... "

He squeezed my hand gently,

"...just let me say what I need to say."

I nodded, dumb-struck by both the anguish and guilt reflected in his eyes.

" I broke down so many of your protective walls," he said wearing a thin smile, " and I thought I had good intentions. I realise now that making you more human was a mistake, I'm sorry Sherlock. I've made you suffer. I'm sorry." His smile faltered as a fit of coughing made him spasm and convulse violently.

_No John! You couldn't be more wrong! Don't doubt yourself now, please! _

" No John." I replied. Shock emboldened my voice and emphasised my reassuring words in a way that would surely neutralise John's doubts. "You were the best thing that ever happened to me... I was so wrapped up my own mind before you came." John shook his head firmly and tears glistened in his eyes,

" Please Sherlock... Listen-"

"-I was pushing myself to constantly be the most cruel, sadistic and heartless person you'd ever had the misfortune to meet. All in the name of reason for god's sake! I purged my emotions thinking that they were mud on my windscreen. But don't you see John, I was wrong! Emotions help clarify so many things that reason and logic cannot begin to explain. Don't you, John Watson say that you've ever done me wrong. Not you. Because in fact everything you ever did for me was right."

" Sherlock..."

" Don't John." I said warningly,

" Just don't."

I moved to gently cup John's cheek, but he shied away. He glanced worriedly at my open palm as if I were to strike him. I felt another crack rip across my already vulnerable heart. John Watson was afraid of me. He was afraid of himself and what he believed he'd done to hurt me. I could feel the warm flush of blood pour from my lacerated heart, the pain was as real as any physical injury I'd ever sustained.

Upon realising that I meant no harm he completed the gesture. Although he winced a little as his frost-bitten face collided with my warm palm I smiled with relief.

_There is still some trust between yet! But he's so cold! Do I have enough time to turn this around?_

Running my fingers through his short blond hair I tried to inch closer to him. The wheelchair was a great hinderance but I soon managed to gain the ideal proximity, hoping that John would find comfort in our closeness.

" Sherlock?" He whispered plaintively, reaching out his hand and placing it on my shoulder.

" This pain you're feeling... It's only superficial you know. You can carry on without me, just like you did before we met."

_John... Don't hurt me like this, please..._

" I won't carry on without you John. I can't."

John shook his head. An indescribable sadness clouded his features,

" You will Sherlock because London depends on you."

" I depend on you too John! Please, just let me call a nurse and then-"

" Then what? I die 'peacefully' in a drugged sleep?"

" I guess so..."

" No Sherlock. I shan't slip from this world like that..." Suddenly, he jolted forward with a deep, rattling cough. My heart leapt into my mouth. When he slowly withdrew I saw a pool of crimson staining the sheets.

" Oh no..." He wiped around his lips and his hand turned scarlet. I screamed at the top of my lungs,

" Nurse! Nurse! Help!"

John's body trembled and shook as if his very core was experiencing an earthquake of the highest Richter scale magnitude. I descended rapidly into hysterics, praying that the pandemonium would bring a medical team scurrying to save John.

_Hurry up! _

_Should I restrain him? I could always try to increase the morphine taps! *mental slap* Be serious Sherlock! What can you do to stop this?_

But my worst fear was recognised; there was nothing I could do except watch him die.

_But what about a defibrillator? I could restart his heart! He'd only have to be dead for a minute or so... _

" Sherlock!" John cried out hoarsely. Sheer terror flashed in his eyes as a ripple of violent spasms shook his already weakened body.

" John! John! Stay with me! Keep your eyes open! It's me, Sherlock. I'm still here for you."

A white coated nurse rushed into the room and hurried to John's side. She shouted out for assistance. Mad with panic, I shouted all manner of abuse at her. John's vital signs were setting off numerous alarms and sirens, triggering a tsunami of doctors to pour through the double doors. I was roughly pushed aside.

_No, no, no. This can't be it... This isn't fair! John!_

_JOHN!_


	4. The Final Solution

It was night. Everything was made dark by the absence of the sun as my life had become through the absence of John.

I journeyed to an oak tree and stood upon a low hanging branch. From this vantage point I could observe 221B in privacy, but there was one thing that my eyes returned to over and over again. The bedroom window that had once been John's. Bringing from the depths of my coat a short coil of rope, I sighed and recounted mournfully what my life had become.

...Everything I prized about myself had fallen significantly in quality...

...Most terrifying of the aforementioned was my brain deterioration...

Although my legs fully recovered I had developed a psychosomatic limp. It infuriated me. The bitter irony!

But quickly I had come to the conclusion that there could be no life after John Watson. The proof? All I had ended up with was a hellish downward spiral. There had been no revelations, no ghostly visitors and no heartfelt note to help ease the pain of his passing.

But I was being selfish. John's death affected other people too.

However the effects of my own heartbreak only added to my friend's discomfort...

I relived seeing the utter disappointment in Lestrade's eyes as I struggled to present the relevant deductions about a case. He'd lost his job because of my inability to cope without John.

I relived seeing the horror in Mrs Hudson's eyes when she found me in 221B in the middle of a suicide attempt.

I relived seeing Molly's crumpled face as I was caught trying to steal medication from the mortuary cabinet.

I had worried all my friends. And I knew it had to stop.

Tonight I would end my suffering.

The custom dyed dark blue rope felt course and rough beneath my fingers. The roughness felt oddly soothing on my neck, a welcome respite from all the other irksome suicide attempts.

Shuffling my feet to the very edge I readied myself for the final plunge. The final problem.

As if on cue, a stern faced man emerged from the shadows. His clothes hung loosely from his bony, angular frame like rags on a skeleton. We stood motionless. Neither made an aggressive move towards the other, even though we had every reason to do so.

" I knew I'd find you here." He said in a quiet, collective voice whilst picking his way over fallen branches and logs.

" Sebastian Moran." I said in greeting.

" Sherlock Holmes." He nodded respectfully in my direction then athletically clambered onto a branch beside mine. He too uncoiled his hanging rope.

" For Moriarty." He said, surprisingly answering the unspoken question wavering on my tongue.

I understood completely. He too was pining after a friend. And although I was with the angels and he with the demons, we had both found mutual kinship through the suffering.

" For John Watson." I said firmly.

* * *

We shared a pointed glance and simultaneously stepped into the abyss.

The ground rose up to embrace us, but our undeniable loyalty to the deceased yanked us away.

I toward the sky, towards Heaven, towards John.

And Sebastian Moran toward perdition, towards Moriarty.

* * *

And then two men who couldn't have been more different yet so similar found peace side-by-side swinging by their necks from different branches of the same oak tree.

In later years the tree would be revered and yet, even when it was scorned and laughed at, everyone respected the emotions that brought Sherlock and Sebastian Moran to the tree that night. The simple pact to end their lives together unified them so strongly.

But below Sherlock's suspended form lay a small note dampened by the morning dew.

It read;

**I couldn't do this without you John,**

**Forever your high-functioning sociopath,**

**Sherlock Holmes.**


End file.
